The Word Love

Based on an ongoing debate I have with my partner about the use of the word “love”.


When trying to synonymously match a word like love, one must first consider what.

What of the word are you trying to change? The word in the verb form? As a noun? Because it does both.

What about the word isn’t working for you the way it currently stands?

A multi-functional word like love is nearly impossible to replace. As I understand it, the need to change it is based on it’s abuse and mis- or overuse. But a lot stands in your way.

Unlike “like”, love is not a comparison word but more of a state of being.

And not like “lust”, love is a feeling type emotion you achieve through deeper connection.

Is the concern that it’s too of permanent, like it can’t be taken back once proclaimed? I fear that sometimes.

My issue is that it’s used so universally to express interest in things like music, books, coffee. And especially when I tell people like family I love them, I don’t feel the same kind of love for you.

Not to offend, simply stating a difference.

Because what I feel for you can be felt through my whole body, across time, and beyond borders.

What I feel is a respect of sorts for your mind and body and a subsequent craving to have more of it at my disposal.

This love isn’t a dependent thing either. Nor is it a pretense for something bigger.

It’s a connection I feel for you, a comfort in knowing you feel something too and want it in your life at this moment.

Is it that what you feel is so strong that using the word love wouldn’t do it justice? That only 4 letters is too simplistic and short?

The good news is that using a word like love leaves little question. It’s definitive and gives you warm and fuzzies. And that it transcends lots — a sweeping statement in 1 word really.

But I don’t want that either.

I want a word that I can say to you and there is no question what I’m feeling. This is where affection and action compliment speech.

So much like no nicknames haven’t stuck, I continue the search for a word or perhaps invent new ones as we go. We have time on our side.

Moments, Not Words

Inspired by The Book of Awakening daily reading on July 8, 2014 entitled Moments, Not Words

When I think about a way to sum up my stay in Portland, I can’t think of any one place or thing that stands out. The entire summer has been incredible but there are a few moments that come to mind. There have been times when I’m talking to a friend or walking about and I stop to think, “This is delightful. I’m really happy right now”. It would be too daunting to read each of my experiences but a quick rundown is in order to give you a better sense of life in Rose City. Things I’ve done: Reggae, roots and Ethiopian music shows at Alhambra Theater, a comedy show at Hollywood Theater, Pedalpalooza rides that filled the month of June, sunsets at Skidmore Bluffs and Rocky Butte, Fourth of July fireworks on a boat in the Willamette, High Rocks watering hole, Sauvie Island girls’ day trip, reading (and sometimes napping) in the parks filled with sweet scents and tall evergreen trees, early morning World Cup soccer watching at the pub, finding a new favorite grocery in New Seasons, Powell’s, house sitting at cool homes for even cooler people, a birthday party at the park for my nephew with a 3-tiered chocolate and peanut butter cake we transported by bike, sipping tereré (the Paraguayan iced version of yerba maté) with friends, single-origin chocolate tastings around town, and countless coffees and brunches. None of this would have been possible without the care and support of my brother who moved here 17 years ago and always encouraged me to join him. I feel confident to now call Portland my west coast home. During a recent comedy show, Jerrod Carmichael claimed he loved Portland but didn’t really understand what goes on here. “It’s like you guys are just one big non-profit” he said and the audience roared with laughter. He’s right.

The other day, I was describing a place to visit on an off-night when we didn’t have much else going on. I mentioned that this hip spot was a bike shop slash cafe slash bar slash art gallery slash event space. It’s called Velo Cult. It made no sense to my friends. But we all later agreed that in Portland, this place makes sense. After an afternoon of the best pizza in town and yoga in the park, we rode to Velo Cult for some chill out time. The first thing my friend said to me when we walked in was how anyone who comes to Portland should go to this place. It is a mainstay. In her eyes, she just walked into the coolest place in town. And I agreed. The only thing missing was a library. Then, the books appeared. A small group of books about bikes was sitting at the main table in the middle of the room. As we sipped our drinks, we browsed through books about the world’s best rides and made a short bucket list for our 10-year plans. As we were leaving, a man was browsing the shop and taking photos. As he approached our table, he mentioned he just arrived from Vancouver BC and needed his bike repaired. Velo Cult was his first stop. He proclaimed he felt like he arrived at — wait for it — the coolest place in town. We all agreed. It’s not that other cities aren’t cool or hip too, it just feels like it’s encouraged behavior here and you are given the space to express yourself freely.

That moment stood out to me. I walked away thinking that this was the coolest city and I made the right choice in coming back. Bridgetown, Stumptown, Rip City, whatever you call it, is made for people like me who crave creativity, expression, and not a overwhelmingly big-city feel. Cool things happen here.


(photo by Isaac Spedding)

Gentrification in Portland

The second ride I took during Pedalpalooza was Le Tour de Gentrification, co-hosted by super cool blogger and ride enthusiast Hart Noecker (Rebel Metropolis) and professor and former council candidate Nicholas Caleb. A full rundown of stops and discussion can be found here.

Here’s the thing… I don’t claim to know much about Portland despite having spent a couple of summers here. What I do know is that it’s changed. Another thing I know is that I’m a minority. From a city recently buzzing with gentrification news (hey Atlanta!) and also claiming another gentrified borough (where Brooklyn at?!), I’m in the thick of the gentrificated (I made up a word there) life.

Gentrification. I’ve heard the term thrown around a lot. I’ve never heard it more used and abused than during my stints in PDX. Embarrassingly enough, I’ve never taken the time to learn about it. In another related event, a friend of mine from Atlanta, who also lived in Brooklyn, sent me this article about hipster economics. And so began my deep dive into the etymology, history, happenings, and news in gentrification. I felt it was only fitting that I ride along and learn more about Portland’s rich gentrification history. I got schooled in the best of ways.

Here I am, living in NE Portland, oblivious to the history in my own backyard. We began cycling in the SE but quickly clustered several stops right down the street from my new home. How could I be so oblivious? Then I thought, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re new.

Being new to the city has it’s perks. Most people are welcoming, offering to network and help you meet others. Then some people give you this look like, “Oh, welcome. I guess.”. As if I’m spoiling it for the rest of them, bringing my high-paying NYC salary to little old Portland to raise the rents. Little do they know, I’m unemployed and struggling to make ends meet too.

As we toured, discussions ensued and I did what I do best: sit back (more like lean on my bike) and listen, conjuring up questions to ask once people were long gone. Afterwards, my friends and I ventured on our own to eat dinner and discuss. It was a healthy discussion but left me more confused than ever as to who’s side I was on. Or whether I needed to choose sides at all. Sure, I get it. Gentrification has done some bad stuff. But how can we reverse the damage? And isn’t it kind of a cyclical thing that happens in every major city? Why weren’t we also talking about the black-owned businesses that are thriving due to the new neighbors or the people who fought to stay and open up community housing vs. lame, ugly condos? Perhaps I’m still the lost lady who’s new in town.


Maybe I’m not bold enough to form an opinion aloud. Maybe I don’t like to speak up unless I feel I’ve done my research. I consider this ride step one in that direction. Learning the history about Portland was the biggest lesson. I need to know more about where I live, what’s happened here before I arrived, and what are the plans for the future. If I plan on staying longer than a summer, it’s my civic duty to know these things. And I’m grateful we rode that night to start the conversation.

Oregon Historical Society Time Capsule

Inspired by my friend Esther’s recent adventure, I played tourist in Portland. When I move to a new city, I found the quickest way to get to know the city is to attend Meetup groups. This time around, I signed up for a group with fellow East Coasters. The host proposed an event during the day/lunch hour when a time capsule from 1984 would be unveiled by the Oregon Historical Society. I was uber excited about it because I was born that year and could see items from my birth year.

Pioneer Square was the location, a local tourist destination and affectionately known as “Portland’s Living Room”. It’s a public meeting place constructed in red bricks and occupies an entire city block. Upon construction 30 years ago, the Oregon Historical Society (OHS) buried a time capsule with items that symbolized Portland at the time.


Among the contents were cassette tapes (Madonna!), Nike sneakers, a boombox, a Portland parking meter head, local wines and beers, 1984 currency, Portland restaurant menus, newspapers, TriMet (public transit) tickets and booklets, phone books, maps, videotapes, utility and food bills for a family of four, 1980’s attire and photos.



The time capsule was opened in front of a crowd of tourists, nearby employees on their break, school children on field trips, and of course, randoms like me. While watching the kids ooh and ahh at the contents, viewers walked around a table with the contents on display. Not many were in perfect condition (paper ended up pretty damaged) and the OHS volunteers were scrambling to put things out without damaging the contents further. The school children were asking their teachers what phonebooks were and why we listened to music on such big music players like boomboxes. It was at that moment I really felt my age. There was a suggestion box for recommendations on what to bury that reflected times today. Only one thing came to mind… a smartphone. Everything is in those: apps, music, photos, video. Our entire lives really. I wondered if kids in 30 years would know what to do with the smartphones of today. I sat and daydreamed on the bricks for a few more minutes then headed home.

Make It Quick

Concision is an art. Well crafted sentences are rich with language and deliver a clean punch. Words like just, really, very, get, and clearly are detriments to the English language. We use them recklessly hoping to boost our word count. Deep into the edits of my first novel, I’m learning a hard lesson in concision; writing a chapter in as many words as necessary without sacrificing descriptive storytelling.

I recently tried my hand at short stories or flash fiction. It was great practice for those wanting to be brief but it was no easy task. It was as if I wanted to use more words simply because I knew there was a limit to what I could write. I’ve even tried writing haikus. They made no sense to the average reader and it felt more like math than poetry. The only place I think I’ve mastered the art of concision is on Twitter.

When I first discovered I used the passive voice a lot in my writing, I was devastated. I was embarrassed at my poor grammar but I didn’t know how to break the habit. After a recent writing conference, I learned about the Erasmus exercise. Find 10 or more ways to write the same sentence and you’ll be surprised by the possibilities. It was a great way to overcome writer’s block and to experiment with my writing. Now whenever possible, I use the active voice.

In an effort to listen to my own advice, I’ll stop here. You get the point.

Saving Face

I’m not on Facebook. I don’t have plans to return any time soon. I realize this puts me at a disadvantage in some ways but I’m also celebrating it’s absence in my life for 3 years. I often get weird looks for being the only one at the dinner table not on Facebook. I get pleas to return too (mostly from close friends and family). Then there’s that one person that says, “Oh you’re the smart one here,” that assures I made the right decision.

But why? What was it that pushed me to delete my account? Well, a lot of things brought me to the final decision. Without being melodramatic about it all, ultimately it was my lack of privacy. I made the mistake of making too many “friends” and sharing information with people I really didn’t know. Facebook changed a lot that year and I was lost in the settings one day when I jumped on the road to deletion.

This doesn’t mean I’m a social media snob nor am I a newbie. I like Twitter and Tumblr. Instagram is my jam! Honestly, that’s plenty to keep up with. That’s heaps of updating, refreshing, and feeding to fill a day with news and nonsense. If Facebook was another thing I checked throughout the day, I’d be far less productive.

Sure I’m missing photos of my nieces and nephews, friends’ babies (ha!), graduation announcements, and party invites. That just means I go out of my way to stay in touch with the people I really care about. I set aside time each week to email (think long form Facebook messages) a few friends I haven’t talked to in a long time. If I’m feeling extra nostalgic, I’ll pop a postcard in the mail. Or worse, a phone call!!

There were a few times I gave in and made comeback. I thought it would be an epic event. I’d post an update and people would celebrate my return with a party (I guess you could say Facebook also brought out the narcissist in me). When I covertly re-opened my account, I was completely lost on my own homepage. I was overwhelmed by the changes and immediately closed the account again. I even tried starting fresh. You know, new-year-new-me sorta thing. Same result.

That’s me though; sticking to what I know best and being greedy with my time online. I won’t say I’ll never be back but in the meantime, you know where to find me.

We’re All In Sales

What I love most about what I do is selling something with so many words. I enjoy using the English language to explain, teach, promote, or inform. Storytelling can transform something an audience never thought possible. Painting a picture with words and leaving the reader with something to think about, that’s a talent not many possess (Here I am, selling myself).

Sell, sell, sell. We do it everyday. Regardless of what industry you work in, you’re selling something. Even the unemployed are selling their skills and talents to potential employers. If people trust you, they look to you for recommendations on what to buy. In the last week alone, I’ve sold a smartphone and a laptop just by explaining the benefits of one product over another. And I will never see a check from the manufacturer. But selling is second nature to me now.

I’m not into the buy-now-pay-later sales. I’m talking about captivating a reader with a particular voice, tone, and identity that no one else has. Steve Jobs knows. He said, “People don’t know what they want until you show it to them”. In my case, they don’t know what they want until you write it out for them. Hopefully sales doesn’t put a nasty taste in your mouth. It should feel like a nasty taste was never there to begin with.

Pick up a coffee now, because it’s not just for closers, despite what Alec Baldwin tells you.

Coffee Catch Up

It’s been 5 months since my last post about coffee. Sad seeing as how it’s such a big part of my life these days. Nonetheless, it’s time to catch up with the happenings on my caffeinated beverage of choice.

Since moving back to the States, I’ve done a fair amount of coffee-ing. That is, I’ve visited many a good roaster in Brooklyn and Atlanta. Starting with Blue Bottle, Toby’s Estate, Kos Kaffe, and Cafe Grumpy. Then onto an amazing co-op roastery in Red Hook called the Pulley Collective. There, coffee know-it-alls like Ninth Street and Joe share space to roast on the regular. It smelled like heaven. Ground to Grounds did an amazing blog post on them here. I also met the world’s coolest barista during a cupping session hosted by Brooklyn Roasting Company at The Jeffery. Alex works at this lovely espresso bar turned craft beer haven in the evenings located under the Queensboro Bridge in Manhattan. Alex was the first person I’d met in a long time who was so passionate about his craft. He could talk about coffee for hours and dream big about our futures in the coffee industry. He even gave me a mini barista training session with tips and tools I’ll be taking with me on my travels.

Since returning to Atlanta, I’ve had the freedom to explore a few shops and enjoyed a nice long visit to Thrive Farmers Coffee. I toured the facility and sat with David Paparelli over cappuccinos and pour-overs to talk about our journey to that moment. Thrive has a unique supply chain and sharing model.  It inspired me to explore future coffee farm volunteer opportunities and ideas about taking cupping training to parts of Central America where the education on coffee is lacking in that respect. My latest stop was at Land of a Thousand Hills coffeehouse in Roswell, GA where I had the best soy latte in Atlanta. Or at least outside the perimeter. Inside the perimeter, I’ve enjoyed Aurora Coffee a tad too much. Still on the list for visits are Octane and Dancing Goat. 

As I’m staying mega caffeinated, I’m also being mega productive; continuing my business outreach to those who I think can share some knowledge about the coffee bean. I’m moving to Portland in two weeks and eager to dive deep into the world of coffee in the Pacific NW again, with a new perspective on the coffee life elsewhere. After all, it is the land of Stumptown and reusable mugs. Not only that but my roasting partner-in-crime has plans to swing by and setup shop there. And it’s going to be epic so stay tuned. 

Flash Fiction – The Passenger

I was already exhausted when I boarded the train home today. I don’t recall doing much work that would summon this type of tiredness. Perhaps my mind was working overtime at the office. I’m mentally drained. I remember missing my lunch break by a few hours. I don’t think I was really doing much work work. Either way, that subway ride really didn’t help.

I boarded the train, as I do everyday, at 6:30pm. F train to Brooklyn. From 42nd St. I saw all the usual notices: if you see something, say something; mind the gap, chew this gum, buy this beer. They were everywhere. Another reason I must be so tired: advertising overload. But really, it’s because she rocked my world. I chose the wrong train, the wrong time, and the wrong seat today.

I sat down in what I thought was a normal seat: free of debris, by the window, facing the right direction, and no one directly next to me. I sat down, removing one headphone from my ear to hear the train operator announce this was a Brooklyn-bound train, per usual. Then she boarded at the next stop.

She had on a red peacoat, skinny blue jeans, and black Mary Jane’s with white socks. The kind I wore as a kid in church and came back in style decades later for millennials like me. Her red hair was tied up in a bun, high above her head. She was fair-skinned and walked on her toes, almost tip-toeing to her seat, making her calves stand out from under her tight jeans. Her red hair didn’t clash with the red peacoat as any fashion magazine would presume. Everything seemed to fit into place in this woman’s life. As she sat down I noticed one thing. She had a tissue crumbled up in her hand, hiding on her lap. She stared blankly out the window as she sat in her seat, unaware that all that red would naturally bring attention to her arrival. She didn’t seem to care. She avoided eye contact with everyone. She sniffled and brought the tissue to her nose. That’s when I realized she was crying.

Her eyes were bloodshot from the tears. They collected in a small pool on her jeans, turning the denim a darker shade of blue. The tissue was now in a small ball, almost hidden in her clenched fist. She continued to stare out the window into the dark subway tunnel. She wasn’t the first woman to cry on the subway, certainly not the first I’d ever seen, but something about her begged for my help. Yet, I felt helpless. She sniffled again as I yanked my pad and pen from my bag. I was determined to pass her a note with a simple message that I was bearing witness to her cry for help and I was here if she needed me.

Ill-prepared for this moment, I scribbled tidbits of advice I thought I would want to hear in this situation. All I could muster were taglines from recent commercials I’d seen on Youtube. Or cheesy quotes from self-help books. I couldn’t even remember something profound from inspiring women like Maya Angelou or Gloria Steinem. For shame. Here I was, with an opportunity to help and all I could come up with were invasive, unsympathetic slogans for a better life according to the Internet.

Then it hit me. Like a train. The irony! I quickly scribbled down my wise words and realized how illegible my handwriting was. Cursive was never my forte. Who wants to get an ugly handwritten note that’s going to change their life? I opted for all capital letters, hoping she wouldn’t think I was yelling the words I knew she so desperately needed to hear. I ripped the page from my journal, expecting she would appreciate the sacrifice I made from my coveted diary, and folded the paper. I stood up, ready to proudly deliver my note when I noticed she vanished from the window seat. I turned to see if I could spy her red color scheme in another seat. She must have gotten off the train. I was so involved in my good-doing that I didn’t even realize her leave my peripheral. I decided this was all too much to handle in one evening and got off at the next stop to walk home. I got up, placed the note quietly on my seat and turned back, anticipating someone would appreciate my advice: IT GETS BETTER.